Fiction

The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.

I stared at the chains for a long moment.

They were thicker up close—layered metal, cold and ugly, dug deep enough into her scales that the edges were dark with dried blood. My stomach twisted.

“Of course I left my phone at home.”

I told my mom I was going to school.

I gave a long exhale “finally they’re done bickering” I thought 
 

I turned, “alright, class is—”

“Ryder” grunted Juniper “you keep avoiding my question” 

I woke up to beeping.

Slow. Steady. Annoying.

People think the world makes sense if you look at it long enough.

Like if you study hard enough, listen carefully enough, follow the rules closely enough—everything will line up the way it’s supposed to.

That’s a lie.

I went to work the day after they announced it. I stocked the shelves and listened to the radio from the speakers in the warehouse ceilings. Cars were piling up at the exits, trying to get out of town.

Chapter 11

2 weeks later…

Chapter 10

Chapter 9

Chapter 8